Next day the chain was thicker, the hour propitious, and the walk longer; that was the day when she found out that he had known her father in South Africa. The days passed with a delightful monotony. The Aunt and her pet Tabbies all day, a sound sleep, an early waking, a heavenly meeting with Alcibiades at the back door, the restoring of him to his master. And every day the chain grew heavier, the walks longer, the talks more interesting and more intimate. It was very wrong, of course, but what was the girl to do? You cannot be rude to a man who is saving your dog, your darling, from rat-poisons, rivers and ropes. And if dogs _will_ break chains, why--so will girls. It was on Christmas Day that the spell was shattered. Judy awoke at the accustomed time, but no welcome whine, no pathetic scrabble of eager paws broke the respectable stillness of the Aunt's house. Judy listened. She even crept down to the side gate. A feeling of misery, of real physical faintness came over her. Alcibiades was not there! he had not come! He had, indeed, forgotten her. The conviction that the master of Alcibiades would be the last to appreciate the new attachment of his dog comforted her a little; but for all that the day was grey, life seemed well-nigh worthless. Judy now had leisure to reconsider her position, and she was not pleased with herself. It was in the thick of the Christmas beef that the thought awoke. "_He_ is tired of meeting me; he has locked Alcibiades up. If he hadn't, the darling _must_ have come." Since this solution left Alcibiades without a stain upon his faithful character, it ought to have been comforting, but it wasn't. She felt her cheeks flush. "Good gracious, child," said the Aunt, "what are you turning that curious purple colour for? If the fire's too much for you, let Mary put the screen to the back of your chair, for goodness' sake." When the plum-pudding's remains had passed away and the perfunctory dessert was over the Aunt retired to rest. Judy was left to face the grey afternoon alone. She sat staring into the fire till her eyes ached. She felt very lonely, very injured, very forlorn. There was a footfall on the steps--a manly tread; a knock at the door--a kind of I have-a-perfect-right-to-knock-here-if-I-like sort of knock. Judy jumped up to look in the glass and pat her hair, for no one but an idiot could have helped knowing who it was that stepped and knocked. He came in. "Alone?" said he. "What luck! I asked for the Aunt. Meant to say Friend of your Father's, and all that. But this is better. Judy, I couldn't stand it.... She's coming. I can hear her." There was indeed a sound of stout house boots trampling overhead, of drawers being pulled out, of wardrobe doors being opened. "I wish everything was different," said he; "but, oh Judy, darling, do say yes! say it now, this minute; and then when she comes down I can tell her we're engaged--see?" * * * * *